


Lagniappe

by bgoodg



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Accents, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgoodg/pseuds/bgoodg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik take a trip to the Big Easy during their swinging 60's road trip.</p><p>Lagniappe is a common phrase in the gulf area meaning an unexpected gift or benefit. Written for a X-Men First Class kink meme prompt.</p><p>The very slightest dub-con concerning Remy's charm powers. Implied threesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lagniappe

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction and not written for profit. The characters mentioned belong to their respective creators and owners. No defamation is implied

July in New Orleans has Erik sweating through his linen shirt and pleated khakis. The hat does little to cool him and the sunglasses have pinched an indentation onto this nose.

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" Charles questions.

"I will refrain from making the obvious remark about who is and who is not the mind reader. Just as I have refrained from mentioning the powder sugar on your shirt since beignets this morning."

Charles looks down, spotting the white sugar on his crisp black polo and attempting to brush it off with his hand. "You could have mentioned. We spent twenty minutes talking to that police officer."

Erik smiles. "It's fine. Made you look like a harmless tourists. Although why anyone would visit this swamp is beyond me."

"Not enjoying your time in the Big Easy Erik?"

Like everything else in their relationship, since their first meeting in the cold ocean with their bodies and minds pressed together, there's a hint of tension in the question. Erik's still wondering if it's sexual or ideological.

"I spent a few years in Paris," Erik says. "New Orleans is very similiar, except for the humidity, food and the fact that no one here speaks English."

Charles laugh is loud and bawdry, one suited for a pub and infatuated co-eds. Erik will take it for his own.

"This is the place," Charles rechecks the address with the one written on their hotel stationary.

The building itself is unassuming: painted a lime green with dark green shutters, the balcony is encased by decorative wrought iron. Erik doesn't miss the eyes watching from above nor their barely concealed weapons. The guns won't do the men and women any good but Erik points them out to Charles anyway.

 _Noted my friend._ Charles mentally responds. He brings up one hand and knocks on the security door.

The woman who answers is gorgeous. Black curls tumble to her waist and her pale skin is revealed by a light blue sun dress.

"Something ya boys looking for?" Her accent is all molasses and flows as slow as the Mississippi.

"We're looking for Remy LeBeau."

She glances at them. Quick sweep of her eyelashes up and down. "Ya boys Feds?"

"Does he look like a federal agent?" Erik indicates towards Charles and asks.

The woman smiles. "Boy doesn't look old enough to be out of prep school."

Charles is indignant but Erik speaks before the speech can start. "We're just looking to play, miss."

"Well then ya certainly come to the right place."

The room itself is simple, low lighting and the red curtains giving everything a rouge tint. But the floor is packed with card tables, slots and games of chance. The dealers wear minimal clothing and the booze is free flowing.

Erik steers them towards a poker table when Charles seems a bit overwhelmed. They've been told poker is their man's favorite game.

It takes three hours and almost three thousand dollars of Erik's money before Remy shows himself. Erik has been kept with good brandy and Charles close enough to touch the whole night so the delay is met with a mild snarl.

"Heard ya hommes were looking for Remy." With a flourish and swing of trench coat, Remy sits at their table, nodding to the dealer and getting himself dealt in. Despite the heat he keeps on his trenchcoat; despite the low lighting he keeps on the sunglasses.

"We're looking to set up a private game," Charles says. There's a few chuckles around the table. Charles's deplorable poker skills, plus his refusal to use his telepathy, has caused most of Erik's three thousand dollar deficient. He'll make sure to find a way Charles can pay him back later.

"Ah ain't above taking some Yankee's money but Ah want to make sure y'all know the stakes," Remy says. "What da minimum per hand here?"

"One hundred," the dealer says. The game has stopped, the new entertainment the boys who think they can take on the Ragin' Cajun.

"When Remy play, da minimum is one thousand."

'We can handle that," Charles says, strong and confident. "I won't be playing of course. My associate will be handling the game."

Erik feels a bit like he's been thrown under the bus, except with a bus he could wiggle his fingers and stop it.

"Remy okay with dat." There's the laziest of grins that has Erik wondering what sordid visions are flashing behind those sunglasses. Remy folds his cards, saying, "If ya gentlemen would follow moi."

Erik can feel the eyes of the room stalking them, the smirks and whispers as they trail Remy down the hall. Each door they pass has a card taped on the front. Erik wants to ask but then Remy turns to one with a king of hearts and opens it.

"Cute," Erik notes, walking in first. He scans the area, noting points of access and metal fixtures. He also notes the lack of any sort of table and instead the large four poster bed in the corner.

"I think you misread our intentions," Charles says.

"Remy didn't misread nothin'." He walks to the far end of the room where a mini bar is set up. Remy pours two fingers worth of scotch and turns back to Charles and Erik. "Y'all be mutants oui?"

Charles smiles, delighted at not having to repeat the same speech about genetics and abilities again. "We are. My name is Charles Xavier and this is my partner Erik Lensherr."

There's a slight smirk from Remy that Erik doesn't miss. "So what y'all want from lil ole Remy?"

"We'd like you to work with us," Charles says. "We're amassing a group of mutants to work with the CIA."

Remy frowns at the organization mention. "Remy more the type to run from de law than work for it."

Erik can relate.

"I can understand the sentiment," Charles says. "But we could greatly use your help. What exactly is the nature of your mutation."

The lights are low but when Remy lowers his glasses, Erik sees blazing red and black eyes. Erik has one startling moment where he wonders what the Nazis would have done if they'd ever gotten their hands on the boy.

"Can you see in the dark?" Charles asks, smiling and clearly wanting to inch closer for a better look.

"Da eyes don't seem ta be connected ta Remy's power." From within the trench coat, Remy pulls out a playing card. He holds it like a knife, situated between long fingers. Erik blinks and the cards on fire. Not a fire Erik's even seen before, one that's sharp and hot and burns electric pink. With a flick, the card lands in the trash can, a small boom shaking the metal container.

"Very impressive," Charles says. He says this to all of the mutants. He said it to Erik too.

"Dat's only a small thing."

"Can you do more?" Charles questions. He's been obsessed with the concept of secondary mutation after learning of Emma's telepathy and diamond form.

Remy smiles, slow and lazy; his red and black eyes on Charles as his tongue wets his lips. "Remy could show ya how much more."

Erik doesn't realize he's stepping forward but in a moment he's between Remy and Charles, one hand outstretched to keep Charles back. "Why don't you show me." Charles is entirely too trusting. They've already seen Remy fashion explosives, what other dangers can the boy hold?

"Remy ain't picky." He rolls his shoulders, more stretching than walking until he's standing in front of Erik. "Ya sure are pretty homme. So sharp ain't ya."

Erik wants to mentally reach out to Charles, to get his read on the situation or to suggest they leave, but Remy keeps his eyes on Erik and his voice low.

Remy's fingers touch Erik's as he keeps talking, "Charles ain't too bad himself oui? He got dat pretty boy thing working. Remy bet ya think about him, about laying him down on da bed and fucking him till he screams."

Erik doesn't need the aid of telepaths to imagine the scene. In a hotel or back at the CIA facility, Charles naked and sweaty, his hair falling into his eyes and lips forming more, more, more.

"Ya look hot, should take off dat shirt of yours."

Erik does feel hot, like the room is suddenly too small, like everyone is too close but not close enough. His fingers go to the buttons on his shirt and the material falls in a clump on the floor. The undershirt is next with his black suspenders falling to his side.

"Erik," Charles breathes behind him.

The moment is almost broken but soft hands touch Erik's chin and pull his focus back to the cajun. Remy steps backwards and Erik follows. They travel to the bed where Erik doesn't resist when Remy pushes him down.

"Think those pants need ta go too," Remy says.

Erik complies, letting the material pool around his ankles to be slipped off by Remy. The Cajun's eyes are lovely and roam across Erik's body.

"What kind of power is this?" Charles questions.

Erik tries to focus, to pinpoint Charles and feel the steady hum of his thoughts. But there's something blocking the connection, like fog over the shoreline and he can't see the land.

"Jus' a little something extra Remy can do. Ah lil bit of charm that goes ah long way. Ya should turn over Erik, bet Charles would love to see ya on all fours."

Erik thinks that's a lovely idea and moves on the bed so that he's on his hands and knees.

"What are you making him do?" Charles asks, somewhere behind Erik.

"Nothin' he didn't want." The bed dips and Remy's besides Erik, whispering, "Ain't that right Erik?"

Erik wants Charles. He's wanted Charles since the beginning. From the time Charles entered his mind and flooded it with calm, with thoughts Erik hadn't bothered to consider in years.

"You should fuck me," Erik says, deliberate and precise. "Or I can fuck you. Either way you should start touching me."

"Ya heard da man," Remy drawls. "Ain't nice to make him beg like dat."

Erik glances over and catches Remy's grin: his teeth sharp and his eyes filled with demonic glee. Erik moves to open his mouth, to ask a question or why it feels like he's downed some very strong liquor, when Charles moves onto the bed. The first touch of those hands, too soft for anyone who's ever strangled a man for information, touch Erik and all thoughts go to Charles.

 _Are you sure you want this?_ Charles's mental question cuts through the hazy fog created by Remy. Charles brings him back and Erik realizes he still wouldn't want to be any where else.

"Yes Charles," Erik says. "Always yes."

***

Erik is woken with a coffee cup under his nose.

"Thank you," Erik says.

"Perk of the room apparently," Charles nods towards the saucer and full coffee service.

"Any sight of our mutant friend?" Erik questions. He's aware that he's naked, that his hair is all pushed to one side and Charles has several marks around his neck that can only be described as hickeys. The children are going to have a field day.

"He stole our wallets," Charles says.

"Of course he did," Erik adds. The ID was a fake and his cash had already been depleted down to twelve hundred dollars thanks to Charles's inept poker playing.

"He did leave us a note though."

Erik snorts and gets out of the mussed bed. "Are we're not going to comment about how he referred to himself in third person?"

Charles smiles. "I think it's a good thing I'm not an English professor."

Smirking, Erik grabs his clothes. His pants are tangled with Charles and a genuine smile crosses his face at the memory of the previous night.

"Dear Charles an' Erik," Charles begins, trying to mimic the Cajun's accent. "Remy won't be joinin' ya. Et ain't hes fight."

"That is the most atrocious cajun accent I've ever heard."

"I shall have you know I starred in two productions of _A Streetcar Named Desire_ while in university. At the bottom he signed, wasn't lying about my rates, pay Belladonna before you leave." Charles looks up, furrowing his brow before asking, "What do you think that means?"

***

In a New Orleans hotel, after a quick exit and run through several alleyways, Charles makes a discrete phone call and kindly asks his younger sister to wire him some money.

***

In another room in New Orleans, filled with stolen paintings and stolen jewels, Remy LeBeau holds the ID of one Charles Xavier and thinks about backup plans.


End file.
